


I’ll wash your back (and you’ll wash mine)

by FlashMountain



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: And hopeless, Billy Hargrove Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Fluff, Harringrove, M/M, Pining, Post S3, Steve is obvious, billy lives with steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23130508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashMountain/pseuds/FlashMountain
Summary: It’s weird. It’sweird, out of the ordinary, strange. And yeah, weird’s changed, over the years. Weird now isn’t even close to weird back then.Now, weird is all monsters and blood and girls with powers. And then there’s this. Billy Hargrove. Billy Hargrovelivingwith him. Existing around him, eating in his kitchen, sleeping one thin wall away in that never used guest bedroom. Using his shower.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 21
Kudos: 198





	I’ll wash your back (and you’ll wash mine)

It’s weird. It’s _weird_ , out of the ordinary, strange. And yeah, weird’s _changed_ , over the years. Weird now isn’t even close to weird back then. _Now_ , weird is all monsters and blood and girls with _powers_. And then there’s this. Billy Hargrove. Billy Hargrove _living_ with him. Existing around him, eating in his kitchen, sleeping one thin wall away in that never used guest bedroom. Using his shower. 

It’s been a while, since Steve’s _existed_ with someone, like that. Since his house has been not only _his_. And it’s fine. _Weird_. He’s a _good guy,_ he’s Steve Harrington with the big empty house, with the bleeding, babysitting heart. He didn’t mind helping. He liked being _useful_ , for once. Perked up like a damn _puppy_ at the thought of doing something good. So, _obviously_ , he’s ended up with Billy _fucking_ Hargrove in his _shower_. 

The Mind Flayer got him good. Tore him to _pieces_ , left him to be sewn up by scientists in pristine lab cotes dyed black from monster goo. They sent him back to Hawkins, hair buzzed short and eyes all empty. Sent him back in the clothes he wore that day the Mind Flayer wore _him_. It wasn’t _hard_ , to nod and stutter out a _yes_ , when Joyce asked him if he couldn’t help. ‘Cause Steve’s a _real_ helpful guy. 

He’s on the couch, the ugly one, the one that’s in fashion in _Milan, dear_. He can hear the shower running, knows it’s the one upstairs, in the bathroom attached to his room. The one he _urged_ Billy to use. The one with his shampoo and conditioner, the nice ones he keeps buying. The ones that smells like honey and wheat and all kinds of fancy shit. It’s _weird_ , thinking about Billy smelling like that. Like _him_. He’s been waiting downstairs, _zap, zap, zapping_ through channels. Can’t make his eyes focus on the blurry colors and vague humanoid forms. The shower’s been running for a while. 

Steve told him it’s _fine_ , take your time, ‘cause he wants Billy to feel at _home_. ‘Cause he wants him to relax, feel good. Wants him to feel like he’s allowed to _unwind_ , wash off the grime and sweat and aching tension from working on the Camaro all day. He’s not _allowed_ to do straining shit, not with his left arm still in a sling, not with his lungs all rattling and wheezing. He does it anyway. And Steve’s kinda _fondly_ annoyed with him, at this point. He doesn’t think about how _fucking_ annoyed has become _fondly_ annoyed. He doesn’t think about how quickly _Hargrove_ became _Billy_. He doesn’t think about the way his house’s never been more of a home than now, when Billy’s _existing_ , with him. Using his fucking shower. 

The shower cuts off, jarring. Steve’s been listening, lulled to sleep by the pitter-patter of hot water. It’s off, after thirty, _forty_ minutes, and Steve heaves himself up. Heads for the stairs. Doesn’t unpack why he can’t just wait on that ugly couch. He’s taking two steps at a time, all outta breath like he wasn’t the captain of the basketball team for a _year_. He meets Billy in the hallway, catches the last sliver of skin before Billy’s pulled his long sleeved tee all the way down. Steve’s eyes don’t linger. It’s just _weird_ , ‘cause _before_ , he couldn’t get rid of Billy Hargroves golden skin and washboard abs, constantly on display. Now, Billy hides under hoodies and sweaters, hides his proof of _survival_. Hides the scars he got from being torn right open. Billy’s looking at him all suspicious, and Steve feels weird, overeager. 

Weird, overeager, stupid. _So_ stupid, brain all dumb and mouth _dumber_ , when it pries open without him telling it to. So damn _stupid_ , as he blurts out,

“Did you jerk off in my shower?”

“ _What_? What’re you-”, and Billy’s voice is all raw, rough and unused. Not the liquid gold it could be, _before_. His ears are still red from the shower, short, honeyed curls doing nothing to hide it. 

“I just- you were there for a _really_ long time! And that’s _fine_ , I was just-”

“ _No_ , I- the arm makes it _hard_ to- to wash my hair, _shit_ ”, Billy’s lifting his arm, wincing, showing it off like some sorta prize. And _yeah_ , it makes sense, but Steve’s never had a lot of that. _Sense_. 

Scratch that, he has no sense. Not a single _braincell_ , apparently. ‘Cause his mouth is still being so _stupid_ , talking without his _permission_. 

“I mean, if it’s _hard_ ”, and Steve can’t stop looking at the way Billy’s ears are all red, wonders if they’re warm, like a fucking _weirdo_ , “I- um, I could help you? If you wanna, _totally_ , I mean, _yeah_ -”, and he’s rambling, stuttering. Being all _stupid_ , and Billy won’t really look at him, eyes darting from him to the floor to his mangled up arm. 

“For real? I- I didn’t really get the back, if you could...”, and yeah, Steve _could_. He’s a nice guy. He’s _helpful_ , so yeah. He’ll help. Help out tons. In the shower. _Shampooing_ Billy Hargrove’s hair. There’s no reason for Steve’s heart go all haywire. It does anyway. 

They make it back to the bathroom before Steve remembers that _oh,_ he’ll be seeing Billy naked. It’s not like he _hasn’t_ , Billy was never really _shy_ in the locker rooms. But it’s _different_ , ‘cause you don’t _look_ , in the showers after practice. It’s the _rule_. But here, just the two of ‘em, Steve wasn’t so sure of the rules. All he knows is that he stupidly offered to _help_ , and now has to deal with the fucking consequences. 

Turns out he didn’t really have to worry, ‘cause Billy doesn’t even take of his shirt. Stays in a tee and boxers, lowers himself down into the tub, almost drained, water lukewarm. Steve’s not disappointed. He doesn’t know what to _do_ , kinda hovers, for a second, unsure. Billy’s all tense, back hunched and knees bent. Like he’s regretting asking for _overeager_ help in the first place. _Fuck_ _it_. Steve shrugs out of his sweatshirt, lets it pile onto the tiles. Tries not to brush Billy when he reaches for the shampoo. _Tries_ not to notice Billy’s eyes on him. He wonders if Billy’s ears are just eternally red, just hidden behind long curls that aren’t there, now. 

“Tilt your head back”, and Steve’s voice is all low, all gravely like he hasn’t used it for _days_. Like- _anyway_. Billy does what he’s told, for once. Throat exposed, jaw slack. The slope of his nose, his neck, is distracting. 

He tries to be _gentle_ , tries not to touch when he doesn’t have to. Knows Billy doesn’t really like it, can’t _handle_ hands on his skin, touches too rough. He can’t _help_ it, when he gently scratches through his hair, massaging his scalp in a way that isn’t really protocol for shampooing your _kinda-buddy’s_ hair. He works out the matted sweat and oil at the back of his head, gets lost in the easy way his hands move through the short, barely curling hair. 

He’s waisting time, _indulging_ in something he can’t name, fingertips skirting those red-hot ears, working in his dewy, honey conditioner into Billy’s hair. Billy’s _lax,_ all pliant in a way Steve’s never seen him before. Exposed, flushed and relaxed in Steve’s bathroom. The t-shirt is all soaked through, _clings_ to his pecks and stomach and the muscles on his back. Steve doesn’t look at the briefs. He’s finished. He could’ve been done five, _ten_ minutes ago. He’s still _there_ , pouring water over the matted gold of Billy’s hair, smoothing it away from his forehead. He doesn’t want to let go. Want’s to _cling_ to this moment of tenderness. Wants to cling like that _shirt_ clings to Billy’s damp skin. So fucking _stupid_. 

“I’m- uh, I’m done”, and his voice is still all _fucked out_ , like he’s got the damn flu.

“Thanks”, Billy has to clear his throat once, _twice_ , before speaking. Steve can’t bring himself to leave. He’s _sweating_ , even though he took off his damn shirt, feels tacky and too hot all over. He doesn’t wanna leave. Bill’s facing him, now. Torso twisted to keep those _blue_ eyes on Steve. 

“Do you need help with- with something else?”, and Steve doesn’t know what he’s asking, what he _wants_. He’s all breathless, heart beating a mile a second. Billy’s eyes are so damn _blue_. 

Billy’s not giving him an answer, just stays so _close_ , eyes on him, cheeks flushed, mouth open, a little. He’s breathing fast. They’re practically sharing air, so close they could- Steve feels rooted in place, calfs’ straining when he moves _closer_. Close enough to notice those last summer freckles splayed across the bridge of Billy’s nose. 

Billy’s breathing in hard, chest heaving, and he mutters something _soft_ , under his breath. Steve can’t stop looking at him. He doesn’t move fast. He never does, now. Doesn’t charge, _attack_ , the way he used to. Steve’d never be prepared. Billy’s lips are soft. Wet from shower rain and the tongue that keeps tracing them. Something _clicks_ , when he’s _kissing_ Billy. Something he’s never thought about, never _unpacked_. He can’t get enough. He kisses back like he’s _starved_ , hands finding their way back home, into Billy’s hair. It’s a rush. He feels _high_ , on a kiss and a pair of blue, _blue_ eyes. 

Billy’s trying to heave himself up, get some leverage. Lips opening, tongue touching Steve’s. It’s heady, makes Steve wanna _moan_ , makes him wanna _drown_ in the dewy heavy scent of honey and wheat. Makes him wanna drown in an ocean he’s never been to but sees every day in those _eyes_. Billy’s grunting, a noise that makes Steve pull away, a little. Noses brushing, lips tingling. Billy’s left hand is perched on the lip of the tub, all twisted like he didn’t _break_ it three months ago. _Idiot_. 

“ _Hey_ , cut it out”, and it’s the wrong thing to say, makes Billy’s eyes go wide, body go _tense_. Before he can scrabble away, trip and crack his head on the porsclain of the tub, Steve’s got his hands cradling that jaw, thumbs the edge of those lips. 

“your _arm_ , dipshit. Come on, I’ll help you up, _shit_ , you’re gonna get sick, _here_ ”, and he’s helping Billy up, stumbles with him all close, feet tripping over tiles and carpet. “Hi”, he’s saying, all soft, all _close_. Makes Billy huff a laugh against his cheek. Steve never wants to let go. 

‘Hey, Harrington”, and _yeah_ , that shit’s not gonna fly, not when Blly’s kissing his cheek, mouthing down to his jaw. 

“It’s _Steve_ , fuck you. _Come on,_ we gotta get you clothes, you're gonna _die_ on me, here”, he’s talking a little high pitched, a little distractedly. Billy’s plastered against him, thin shirt and briefs doing... nothing. _Hiding_ nothing. 

“’M not, _Stevie_ ”, Billy’s _whining_ , but he still lets himself be led to Steves bedroom, lets himself be toweled off, all dazed and soft and _exposed_. Trusting. It’s only when Steve stars to tug at the still-on shirt, that those eyes go from glazed to guarded. 

“It ain’t pretty, princess”, and Billy’s voice is a little sharp, a little less dewy, jaw working like Steve’s not- _like he isn’t-_

Still, he lets Steve wrestle it off, looks up at the popcorn ceiling, lets Steve _look_. The scars are _less_ , than he thought. Less _overwhelming_. They’re pink, white, gnarled and twisted across his chest. They’re not red and black, like the day at the mall. The day Steve cried for a boy he’d never talked to. They’re there ‘cause _Billy_ is. A proof of _life_. 

“ _Billy_ ”, and those eyes snap back to his, so clear, so _blue_. And they’re kissing, again, colliding, crashing into each other. It’s easy. It settles deep i his _bones_ , some kinda belonging he can't explain. It’s _Billy_. They kiss until Billy’s _shivering_ , soaked through briefs tenting, showing everything and not nearly enough. Billy chases him every time Steve pulls away, licks at his lips with a tongue too _pink_. 

“Get dry, _come on._ I can’t have you soaking my pillow.” And its a suggestion. A question. A question Seve should’ve asked _weeks_ ago, if he hadn’t been so- _afraid_. Billy smiles, all dimpled and hopeful and _real_. Steve never wants to let him go. 

They fall into bed, Billy in Steve’s pajamas, Steve in boxers. They’re _giggling_ , like they’re kids. Like there’s nothing outside of _them_ , nothing else but them and the comforter they’re all nestled into. Sleep comes easy, with Billy’s hand splayed across his chest, fingers curling in the the thatch of hair there, Billy’s chest _clinging_ to his back. It’s _easy_ , letting himself be lulled to sleep by Billy’s even breaths, his lips grazing his neck. 

It’s so _easy_ , when he feels at _home_. He’s home, ‘cause _Billy’s_ there, _existing_ with him. Eating in his kitchen, using his shower. Sleeping in his bed. And he knows, knows it in the marrow of his _spine_ , that he’ll _never_ let him go. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I’m always weak for some soft harringrove, and, as a wise man once said, “There’s nothing more intimate than washing your lovers hair”.
> 
> This is in beta’d, and written at midnight. Feel free to point out any mistakes. 
> 
> Thank you for being awesome, friend!
> 
> (Check out my tumblr for more messy midnight writing: @awickedplacethisis


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